MARK HUGHES COBB: Here it goes: This is what 'I believe'

Friday

Jan 23, 2004 at 12:01 AM

Literally ones of people asked that I follow up and present my own "I believe"s this week.

And while raw openness/slike this recalls that dream about arriving pants-less for/sa first date where her father's the teacher of a class I'd/sforgotten I was taking --/sand it's exam time -- here goes:

I believe in sweet soul music (yeah yeah), cooked up when hearts align, which musicians yearn to recreate in strings and horns and skins;

in movies with heart, sex, sass and beauty, sans irony and more flash than flesh;

in the unexpected kiss;

in the sweet (and kindly forgetful) former girlfriend;

that all women, despite what they've been sold, look best in no makeup and something that doesn't restrict breathing;

in nights in down comforters when the thermostat's set on 0;

in Warner Bros. cartoons;

in wooden bats -- that would be the Louisville Slugger;

in Penn;

in Teller;

that we'd all be better off if we rounded up everyone who loves heavy weaponry, give 'em their own planet and let evolution have its way;

that we can learn from/sbaseball movies: "...We have two lives. The life we learn with and the life we live with after that," and "There are some mistakes you never stop/spaying for" ("The Natural"); and that if there is a heaven (and it might be in your back yard), it's the place where dreams come true ("Field of Dreams");

that Mr. Rogers liked me for just being me;

that Captain Kangaroo should be made a saint before Mother Theresa -- when did she ever read me a story?;

that Paul Newman stepped in where Humphrey Bogart left off on the cool-o-meter;

that "cynical romantic" is not an oxymoron;

that while there's loads of Evil slobbering, you better grab Good when you see it;

that while there may be a soul, there's no eternal Disney World after the body croaks;

that someday someone will prove without doubt that butter, and loads of it, makes you shiny and happily slippery inside;

that New Orleans' Lucky Dogs are worth whatever trouble it takes to create, purchase and ingest 'em;

and that we are all ultimately, tragically, ineffably alone, but that (thank you Mr. Smith) lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for.